Reckless Mistakes
by Leryline
Summary: Mistakes seem to run in the family. Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad has made many reckless mistakes in his time, but sleeping with that one guy from that one nightclub had to be one of the biggest. Desmond Miles happens to make mistakes over and over again, landing him in detention every time. Ezio Auditore... well, he just makes his mistakes on purpose.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: this is my first story upon my return, and I want to know what you think! take five seconds to __**read and**_** review**_and I'd really appreciate it!_

**I: Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad**

It had been a long night.

Altaïr woke up in his bed like any other morning, despite the fact that he felt as if he'd been hit by a truck. The sunlight was like stadium lights, and as much as he wanted to roll over and go back to sleep he knew he should get up.

And so get up he did, checking that he had pants on before wandering any further. He knew that when he woke up feeling like this that some serious shit had most likely gone down the night before, and it was always good to check if you had pants on. He was met with the sight of a college guy lying on the floor of his apartment face-down in a puddle of what seemed to be a mix of vomit and whiskey, and as he rolled onto his back Altaïr saw that his left arm was taped to the floor by about a dozen strips of duct tape. Altaïr's head beat like a drum, his vision fizzing dizzily as he struggled to keep his balance. He felt like absolute shit. Looking around, he saw nobody. Not a soul was in his apartment… well, none that he knew, anyway. There were about fifty people alone in the living room, either completely passed out or well on the way to being so. There was a mix of scantily-clad girls in leather boots and college boys wearing their pants on their heads. Streamers were everywhere, and Altaïr suspected that half of them were toilet paper; taking a look in the bathroom proved his theory correct. Some girl was vomiting into the toilet and the smell was atrocious.

He dragged himself to the kitchen and messily poured himself a glass of water and set about dissolving whatever it was that his friends had given him for hangovers. His amber eyes flicked over the commune of drunken high school kids who were slowly coming to, wondering where they were and how the fuck they got there.

The whole place was cleared out by noon, giving Altaïr the joyous task of cleaning up the mess that was left. He first set about tearing down the toilet paper.

As he cleaned he tried to remember what had happened that night. He remembered going clubbing with his friends, and he _also_ remembered bringing the party back to his apartment… he also vaguely remembered something in between, but he couldn't say what.

Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad was certainly _not _your average frat boy. He was hardly a boy, being much more of a man, with sandy-brown hair and molten gold eyes. He had a thin scar running over his full, Syrian lips and he always seemed to have stubble, but never a beard. He was handsome and he'd had more girlfriends than he'd care to admit, and even more one-night stands. He didn't mind, though. He couldn't even remember their names.

Altaïr also lived alone. His parents had died in a car accident just after he was born, and he had no relations that he knew of. He'd been raised in an orphanage and had raised enough money to go to high school through cage fighting and doing menial tasks that required climbing tall structures.

The fact that Altaïr lived alone became very relevant when he walked back into his bedroom and saw a man lying in his bed.

A man.

A _naked _man.

An _attractive naked man_.

Altaïr's hand went to the back of his neck as he sifted through his deck of memories.

Ah. That's right.

_The music pumped so loud that the Altaïr had to half-shout over it just to be heard. He was having a shit time, if he was going to be honest with himself. There were loads of women, that was true, but the ones who didn't have boyfriends were making out with other guys anyway. Altaïr could have easily wooed any one of them – boyfriend or no – into his bed, but as soon as he approached a girl she disappeared. Eventually, as he got into the swing of things, he found that his advances became more successful._

_He had decided to go out with his cousins, EzioAuditore and Desmond Miles. Ezio was dripping with females, as usual, and Desmond had retired to the bar where he was chatting with the bartender about how to mix martinis. Altaïr was on his own now._

_It was then he saw an empty stool at one of the tables between the bar and the dancefloor. He ordered a drink and headed towards it._

_He didn't bother to ask if the seat was taken – by the look on the man's face it obviously wasn't, and the music was too loud to ask from that distance anyway. For anyone to hear you properly you'd have to be practically kissing their ear._

_"You look like you're having a good a time as I am," Altaïr told the man. He had black hair and deep brown eyes, dusky skin and a tuft of black hair on his chin. Altaïr noticed that one of his arms had been amputated just below the shoulder, and the sleeve of the man's shirt was pinned up. "I'm Altaïr," he added, holding out his hand._

_Seeing as the man only had one hand, Altaïr would have expected him to have put down his beer and shaken it. Instead the man took a long sip of his beer and didn't pay the slightest mind to Altaïr's hand._

_"Aren't you going to tell me your name?" the Syrian asked, smiling despite himself._

_"No," the man replied in a voice pleasing to Altaïr's ears. "Why would I give my name to a stranger who decided to intrude so rudely upon my company? For all I know you could be a serial killer."_

_Altaïr was glad when his drink came; he slugged it back in one go, earning an impressed look from his companion – or maybe it was disgust. It was too dark to tell, and the flashing lights didn't help. Golden eyes met brown ones, and Altaïr leaned across the table until he was practically kissing the other man's ear._

_"Want to join me outside?"_

_He didn't really expect the man to take him up on his offer, but he did. Ezio saw him leaving and gestured to what seemed and sounded like half the club, thinking that Altaïr wanted to take the party home._

_And so the house party had begun, with thumping music and flashing lights and alcohol and streamers made from toilet paper. Altaïr's liquor cabinet was being mercilessly raided by the mercenaries of the frat house, but by that point Altaïr was too busy to notice or care._

_He and his _friend_ had slipped through the partying throng of people and to the back of the apartment. Altaïr had a firm hold on the one-armed man's sleeve, and as soon as they were both in his room he kicked the door shut and flicked the lock._

_They slammed against the wall in a mash of lips and a tangle of tongues and limbs, hands groping blindly and fingers fumbling with buttons and zippers. This man's mouth was so hot and tasted so sweet – Altaïr couldn't get enough. He had never felt this way before, and he was almost positive that it had nothing to do with the alcohol. But he was too drunk to tell. His strong hands tore open the front of the man's shirt and he moved his mouth down his neck, sucking and biting and lapping with his tongue. He made sure to leave a mark… a nice dark hickey, perhaps, or a very obvious bite mark. As he roughly grabbed the man's hips he heard him moan. It was a delightful, solid sound that ached with lust and was almost as wet as Altaïr's tongue. With a wide turn Altaïr spun his companion around, giving him time enough to throw his single arm around his shoulders before they went crashing down onto the bed._

_Altaïr had a bit of a bad habit of rutting like a bull until the bed was all but broken – ruined furniture had been the reason for more than a few breakups. He felt like that now, his mind overtaken by the sheer force of lust. The man below him was moaning and writhing, their skin slick and slippery. Altaïr lifted his legs, sinking his hips forward. He grunted._

_Suddenly the man's eyes flashed, and with an unexpected burst of strength he flipped them both over so he was straddling Altaïr, who had landed unceremoniously on his back. He could barely think straight when the man rode him like he was, rolling his hips and clenching his muscles. It caused every muscle in Altaïr's body to tense, and as he thrust his hips up the man slammed down to meet him. Altaïr grabbed his hips and held them tight enough to leave bruises, hammering them down even harder as he slammed upwards. The man above him was moaning and panting, his erection raging between his legs. Altaïr's mind had turned to water and was trickling out his ears with every blind thrust. He wasn't sure if he was moaning or grunting – the only things he could hear were his own heartbeat and the man's voice, murmuring through his moans._

_Suddenly Altaïr slammed the man's hips down, burying himself inside his companion as he came with a loud hiss through clenched teeth. He felt the thick ropes of his partner's release land against the hard planes of his chest, burning like fingers of lava. Every nerve was tingling, every pore as sensitive as possible. He felt the man above him rise before he slid down Altaïr's chest and dragged his tongue up the traces of his own release, keeping eye contact all the while. There was something instantly arousing about his gaze… the sultriness shot straight to Altaïr's cock. His tongue continued, tracing a long trail up between Altaïr's pectorals and throat, about his jawline and over his chin, ending with a salty kiss upon his lips. "So," panted Altaïr with a grin partly hidden by the darkness. "Now that you know I'm not a serial killer, what's your name?"_

_"Malik," the man replied drowsily as he lay down beside Altaïr. "Malik Al-Sayf."_

Altaïr almost groaned. Being severely hung over and remembering a one-night stand was probably _not_ the best way to start any morning. But… he hadn't made a bad choice. He smirked. The guy wasn't ugly, that was for sure.

As he was thinking, the man – Malik – woke. Altaïr _wasn't gay_. Besides… sleeping with a random guy while you're drunk doesn't make you camp, right?

Wrong.

As Malik rolled over and their eyes met, Altaïr felt a shock of electricity shoot straight to his groin. He was horrified to feel himself react, and thanked Allah that he had the heavy denim of his jeans keeping him down. The man's – Malik's – eyes had a certain shine to them that made Altaïr want to melt into the floor. It reached him even though his hangover-clouded mind, and he found that Malik could remedy him better than any supplements ever could.

Without even an exchange of words, Altaïr put one knee up on the bed as Malik sat up. The black-haired man, who Altaïr assumed to be a little older than himself, grabbed the front of his waistband and, with a surprising show of strength, yanked the man down.

Again, Altaïr ended up on his back. He didn't like being on his back most of the time, but this time was different. With every girl he slept with he'd been the dominant one, making them mewl and squirm and beg. He liked that – no, he loved it. But there was something undeniably sexy about the lean, muscled man who sat astride him, one hand on his chest. There was something dominant about him… something that made Altaïr want to fuck him all over again.

Malik slid down between his legs, nuzzling at the rock-hard bulge between Altaïr's legs. He undid the zipper and slid the jeans down his companion's thighs to his knees and began to tongue at the erection that had sprung up right before his eyes.

"Like a puppy, aren't you?"

It was the first time Altaïr had heard Malik speak while he was sober. It was even better than when he was drunk. He bucked his hips involuntarily, biting down on the back of his hand to stifle his moan. "Shit –," he sat up, rolling Malik onto his back before pushing him onto his stomach. Altaïr lifted the man's hips, sliding his thick nine fingers over the hard cords of muscles, and ground against the cleft with a hiss.

With only spit to guide the process, he hammered into Malik with a violence he had never felt before. Just like last night, every nerve was more sensitive than usual. Malik seemed to be weathered, though, and he didn't scream or cry as some of the girls did. He just made hoarse noises, his hips twitching spasmodically. It took less than five minutes for them both to finish, and Altaïr let his head tip back with a sigh.

Malik stood first, dressing and leaving with only a glance and a little half-smile at Altaïr, who lay with one arm behind his head. He thought he heard something like 'novice' leave the older man's lips as he left, but he couldn't be quite sure. Picking himself up, Altaïr went to shower.


	2. Chapter 2

**II: Malik Al-Sayf**

Malik Al-Sayf wasn't gay.

Or at least… he _thought_ he wasn't. He had been dragged to a club with his brother and his brother's friends, having foolishly promised to be their designated cared for his little brother more than anything in the world – even, at times, himself –so he didn't fully regret the decision. The thought of a drunken Kadar driving was enough to make his stomach churn.

He had met a man at the club – an ignorant, stubborn man, he could tell. He knew as soon as he laid eyes on him, and when they started talking his theory was as good as proven. Liquid-gold eyes watched him and scarred lips smiled at him, and when he felt hot lips against his ear over the pounding of the music and his heartbeat, he knew that he might as well give in. He hadn't been drunk, only having had a beer to keep his annoyance down, but he could tell the other man – Altaïr, as he'd introduced himself – was near drunk out of his mind, even though he didn't quite act it. Malik could smell it on his breath and hear it in his tones.

The sex had been magnificent. Malik had never been with a man before (at least not while sober), but he'd often wondered what it felt like and he had certainly not been disappointed. Malik wasn't the type to lie down and let his partner do all the work… mostly because he wasn't the submissive type. He enjoyed taking control of the ignorant man who had taken him back to his apartment, and enjoyed how Altaïr was still so zealous even when on his back.

When Malik woke up the next morning the first thing he thought of was his brother. How did Kadar get home? Was he all right? He reached down to his jeans and fished out his phone. Kadar was fine, it turned out, and sleeping off his hangover. Malik was so relieved that he fell asleep again.

When he woke for the second time he realised where he was and what had happened. He also realised that the ignorant, big-headed man from the night before was standing and looking at him, scratching his neck ponderously. Malik was seized by a sudden desire so fierce he feared that it would tear his guts apart.

This time was different, though – he was the one who had his head shoved into the pillows and his backside raised to accommodate the bull of a bed-partner he'd acquired. With each thrust he felt like he'd orgasmed, though when he finally came he could barely think, let alone _see_. He got up as soon as he could move properly, and left without regret. It hadn't been the first time he'd had a one-night stand, and he was pretty sure it wasn't Altaïr's first time, either.

When he got home, Kadar was hooting out the window. Their parents had gone on a cruise, leaving Kadar – by then a sophomore in high school – in Malik's care. Malik had a job and a degree; he was a lecturer at one of the closer high schools, teaching both psychology and literature.

"Bro!" Kadar crooned from where he hung out the window. "The walk of shame! I thought adults didn't do that!"

Malik wisely chose not to reply – he loved his brother, but sometimes he could be _really _annoying. He was glad when the front door closed behind him – it was then his brother gallivanted down the stairs noisily, his blue eyes shining. Malik looked at him sparingly.

Kadar spun toward the kitchen, grinning silently. Malik grumbled to himself as he walked up the steps towards his bedroom.

When he got there he threw himself down onto his bed and stared at the ceiling for a few minutes. He then picked himself up and got into the shower.

He had found Altaïr's surprise amusing when he had toppled him onto his back – it was true, doing things with only one arm was difficult, but he made up for his lost strength in the sheer power of his remaining arm. He fingered the stub darkly as the scalding water thundered against his back, unknotting the taut muscles of his shoulders. It had been years ago… Kadar had been rendered vegetative and only by some miracle has he woken up. It was an even bigger miracle that he could talk and walk and laugh. Malik had only lost an arm.

Sighing, he rested his forehead against the cool tiling of the shower wall. His mind once again flickered to Altaïr. Of course… of course Malik Al-Sayf wasn't gay.


	3. Chapter 3

**III: Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad**

"I saw you leaving with that man last night, _cugino_!"

Altaïr could have hit him.

"Man? Really? I didn't – I mean I just –," Desmond stuttered. He regained his head a little and leaned in. "I didn't think you were gay."

"I'm _not_," Altaïr told them honestly. Ezio was grinning at him and Desmond was watching him warily. "I was drunk out of my mind, ok?"

Ezio laughed again, leaning back against the wall. The three of them were sitting on a roof watching the city in the early afternoon sun. It was only a matter of time before Altaïr shoved Ezio's sorry backside of the side of a building.

"Our _cuginetto _seems to be somewhere else, eh, Desmond?" Ezio's dark eyes glittered, and Altaïr added another strike to the board. Desmond glanced at him dryly before replying.

"And what were you doing last night, huh?" he asked pointedly. "You might've had sixteen girls hanging off you, but I didn't see you at all at Altaïr's apartment."

Ezio scoffed. "_Sì_, like you can talk! You spent most of the night chatting to the damn _barista_!"

Altaïr left the two to their squabbling. Ezio wasn't wrong – he _was _somewhere else. Smiling to himself, he let Malik pass out of his mind. He probably wouldn't see the man again, and he wasn't sorry.

"Hey – look," he said suddenly, pointing down. Ezio and Desmond peered over the edge of the building. The gleaming dome of a head was unmistakable – the groomed, ink-black locks of the other head were also completely familiar. Ezio let out a low snarl and Desmond frowned.

"_Avanti!_" Ezio had already begun down the building, sliding and dropping and grasping. Altaïr quickly took over, Desmond somewhat lagging behind. Cesare Borgia had been the cause of Ezio's temper for the last year or so, and Robert de Sablé caused Altaïr's own blood to boil. The three of them crossed paths in an alley, well away from the public. Altaïr flexed his hands and Ezio's mouth was set into a scowl.

"Hey, _bastardi_!" Ezio barked. Cesare and Robert turned around, their gaggle following suit. "_Che cosa vuoi?_"

Cesare sneered at him. He was a violent young man, was Cesare Borgia, with a severe lack of morals. Robert was just as bad, but looked about twice as large and with a head like the sun.

Altaïr wasn't sure who threw the first punch, but soon the alleyway was full of flying fists and kicking feet.

"So," Altaïr began as he brought his knee up to collide with the forehead of one of Sablé's men with a sickening crunch. "So what if I slept with a guy? It was a one-night stand, for fuck's sake."

"_Anche così,_" Ezio replied as he punched another man. "Do you like him?" he ducked nimbly as a punch was aimed at his head, bringing his sharp elbow up into his assailant's belly and sending him sprawling to the ground.

"No!" Altaïr denied a bit too quickly, causing Ezio to glance at him amusedly. Altaïr punched blindly and angrily, narrowly missing Ezio's head. Luckily Ezio was almost as fast as he was and ducked before he could get hit.

"It sounds like you do, _bugiardo,_" Ezio laughed as he kicked someone between the thighs. "You don't need to hide it – more girls for me!"

The fight was over almost as soon as it had begun – Altaïr swore he was about to knock the stuffing out of Robert de fucking Sablé, but when he turned around he had disappeared. Ezio had left Cesare with a bloody nose, and Desmond had kindly taken down five wingmen.

"Well," Desmond stated, "that was nice, but I'd better get back before my dad kills me."

Ezio nodded cordially, not at all noticing his bloodied lip. "Now that you mention it… I have somewhere I need to be." He smiled at them both before turning and stepping over the twitching bodies as he walked away. "_Arriverderci, perdenti_!"

Desmond sighed and shook his head. _Always the sensible one,_ Altaïr thought. Even though Desmond had a short temper (just like the rest of them), he always thought things through… unless he was under pressure.

Desmond had gone back to his car, leaving Altaïr standing alone in the alleyway surrounded by bodies.

He got back to his apartment at about four in the afternoon. It was Sunday and he had school the next day, so he decided to eat and go up to the roof. When he got there he went straight for the punching bag, binding his knuckles so they didn't split. By the time evening fell he was sweaty and tired and happy. Malik had all but passed out of his mind, and he showered again and fell into bed without a second thought.

"Hey, _cuginetto_!"

Fuckin' Ezio.

"How the fuck did you get into my apartment?"

"Keys."

Altaïr flung back the covers and got to his feet, almost clubbing Ezio around the head in the process.

"_Andiamo, andiamo!_" Ezio called as he jogged out of the apartment. "Desmond is waiting!"

Altaïr dressed silently, brooding. He didn't want to go to school – it was his first day back for the new semester and he wasn't feeling up to this shit at all.

He met his cousins out the front of the block and almost collapsed into the back seat.

"He's excited."

"_Sì, _obviously."

They pulled up outside the school minutes before they were due in class. All three headed off in their different directions, Altaïr vowing that if he saw Ezio again he'd kick him so hard that he'd become infertile.

"_Yebnen kelp_."

The day flew by so fast Altaïr lost track of time more than once – he remembered the two fistfights he'd gotten into, but the staff was so used to him getting into fights that they didn't even bother punishing him anymore.

It was his last lecture of the day, and he sauntered into the lecture hall with barely a care in the world. Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad may have been muscled and _may_ have had more girlfriends than he could count on his fingers and toes, but he wasn't stupid.

So he wasn't stupid: that much was true, but when he looked languidly towards the lecturer his tongue almost dropped out of his head and his dick almost leaped right out of his jeans.

Malik Al-Sayf, the man who had been so adamantly riding his dick not two nights before, was dressed in a suit and a pair of glasses and was standing before the class with an even, judging expression.

If Altaïr had not known Malik already, he would feel slightly intimidated by him. The intelligence in the one-armed man's eyes was so fierce that it almost seemed to burn. Altaïr stopped where he stood, students milling about him to find their seats. Malik's eyes met his, and for a moment they went blank. An instant later, though, his eyes passed on as if he had never seen the golden-eyed Syrian before.

Altaïr sunk down into his seat, his friend Maria Thorpe sitting down beside him. Now, Altaïr didn't have many female friends, but Maria Thorpe was so outgoing and independent that he knew he couldn't fuck her if he tried. Plus – he didn't really want to, either. She was flat-chested and had a peculiar face, almost as if it had been constructed in the Sims 3.

"You look pale," she hissed in her English accent. "Are you ok?"

"Fine," Altaïr assured her. "Just great."

And so the lecture begun as it would have any other day, except for the fact that Altaïr was too shocked to see Malik that his dick stayed where it was – even though he thought that Malik in a suit was the goddamn sexiest thing he'd ever seen in his entire fucking life.

"_Zarba_," he muttered to himself. His eyes were intent on Malik's face the entire time, and he didn't hear a word he said. When the lecture had finally ended, Altaïr stood and, instead of leaving, descended the auditorium's steps straight towards Malik.

**Italian:**

_cugino_ = cousin

_cuginetto_= little cousin

_si_ = yes

_avanti_ = onwards, forwards

_bastardi = bastards_

_che cosa vuoi? = _what do you want?

_anchecosì_ = even so

_bugiardo = _liar

_arriverderci, perdenti_= see you later, losers

_andiamo_ = come on

**Arabic:**

_yebnen kelp = _son of a bitch

_zarba_ = shit


	4. Chapter 4

**IV: Desmond Miles**

Desmond Miles hated him.

There was nothing more he hated than Shaun Hastings, and he was sure the feeling was mutual. Desmond was a tolerant guy, or so he'd like to have thought, but Shaun Hastings was pushing it where no man had pushed before.

It had all started in freshman year when Desmond had walked into his history class. He liked history and had done well at it in middle school, but as soon as he saw his professor he knew he was going to have a shit time.

Desmond was tall-ish, with dark hair and sun-kissed skin. Like his cousins Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad and Ezio Auditore, he had a thin scar running down over his lips. He habitually wore grey jeans and a white hoodie. He had a nice facial structure, and he sure wasn't _unattractive_, but he'd never had much luck with girls. His first (and last, he grudgingly guessed) girlfriend, Lucy, had moved out of town at the end of last year and he hadn't heard from her since. He'd gone into a chronic state of depression and Ezio and Altaïr seemed to be the only ones who could shake it off him.

Desmond liked his cousins. They could both be major pains in the ass, but they were good guys all the same. Altaïr had a brain the size of a planet and an ego to match, whereas Ezio concentrated more on girls and partying than anything else.

Desmond preferred to focus on school. He liked learning, but by God, Shaun Hastings was making it an effort.

Shaun Hastings was Desmond's history professor. He was sure that Shaun hated him back, too; he could see it every time their eyes met. He wasn't quite sure why – he hadn't done anything wrong, had he? He hadn't wronged Shaun in any way… he soon moved past the bafflement and settled down in his bed of hatred.

Shaun made a point of making fun of Desmond whenever he got the chance. He made it sound as if Desmond was stupid, so much so that Desmond was beginning to second-guess his own intelligence.

And so Desmond had decided to purposefully fail Shaun's class, just to piss him off.

And piss him off it did. Shaun knew that Desmond was clever, and if the boy had been failing because he was stupid he would have been delighted. Instead Desmond was doing it on purpose, which annoyed Shaun more than salted tea.

Shaun put Desmond into detention whenever he could. Each time he'd make Desmond do something even more stupid than the last time, and he'd laugh internally. Desmond wanted to do nothing more than knock those glasses off his orange-tufted head.

"Miles, my desk," Shaun told him after his class had finished. Desmond stood up grudgingly, having heard the line fare too many times.

"You failed your test again last term, so I'm going to have to give you this." Shaun held up a slip of paper which Desmond snatched, his mouth set and jaw locked. Without a word he turned and stalked out of the classroom, not bothering to even look at the paper before he folded it up and shoved it in his pocket.

That afternoon he reconvened with his cousins. Ezio lazed on his couch and Altaïr sat with his elbows braced on his knees and his face downturned. He was thinking and certainly somewhere other than Desmond's living room.

Meanwhile, Desmond stood and begun to pace, lashing out and releasing all his hatred for his teacher.

"He sounds like a real _figlio di puttana_," Ezio replied, putting his hands behind his head.

"He is," Desmond grumbled as he continued to pace.

"Be careful, _cuginetto_, you'll put tracks into the carpet."

Desmond sat down and fished out the crumpled slip of paper from his pocket. It was, as he'd guessed, a detention slip.

"Tomorrow, an hour and a half. Fuck." He crushed the paper in his fist and then threw it to the ground. "Why does this always happen to _me_?"

Ezio's eyebrows turned up. "He probably just hates you."

Desmond scoffed. "He does." He had noticed that Altaïr hadn't moved. "Hey, man, you all right?" he asked. Altaïr looked up sharply, leaning back.

"Yeah. I'm fine."

Desmond narrowed his eyes. "Right."

The next day, after school, Desmond made his way towards the detention room. Shaun was there waiting for him, his expression to opposite of amused.

"I trust you know why you're here, Mr Miles," Shaun said evenly.

"Yes, sir," Desmond replied sulkily, letting his bag drop to the ground noisily beside his seat. "So, _sir_, what do have planned for me today?"

Shaun wrinkled his nose irritably, pushing his glassed up his nose. "I do not appreciate your disrespect, Miles," he snapped. "You're going to write lines."

Desmond almost laughed. "Lines?" he asked in disbelief. "What are we in, elementary school?"

Shaun shot him a withering glare. "Just get on with it."

Desmond stood grudgingly, snatching up a piece of chalk from the tray beneath the board. The fuck – why did they even _have _blackboards anymore? Weren't whiteboards the standard issue now? Or overhead projectors?

Still, he wanted to get this shit over with. "What do I write?"

Shaun pretended to think. "How about 'I will not fail history?'"

Desmond eyed him over his shoulder and then turned and began the first line.

_I will not fail history…_

Desmond suddenly felt weird. He felt a heat spread up his back and he supressed the urge to shiver. He realised that it was because Shaun was watching him. Of course he was… there was nothing else to look at… right?

Still, Desmond felt uncomfortable.

_I will not fail history…_

Desmond heard the sharp tap of the hard soles of Shaun's shoes as he approached, looking up at the one-and-a-half lines of white chalk. His eyes flicked back to Desmond, who had a very curious expression on his face.

_I will not fail history…_

Desmond felt long fingers slide up beneath his hoodie and over the sharp curve of his hips. They fingered his waistline, traced the hard metal buckle on his belt, slid down into his pockets. He felt the heat of a body behind him, the washing of breath over his neck. He did shiver then.

_I will not…_

Kisses were pressed to the back of his neck, those long fingers unbuckling his belt and unzipping his jeans, running ever so sensually over the material of his (blue) boxer briefs. Desmond let out a strangled noise.

_Fail…_

He could feel hips grinding against him, a fervent mouth attached to his neck, sucking and lapping and marking. One hand slid up over his stomach, under his hoodie and his shirt. The other slithered inside his briefs and found its rock-hard goal. Desmond moaned, and then bit down on his arm to stifle the noise. "Fuck…"

He heard Shaun chuckle lowly behind him as his nose skimmed up the warm skin of Desmond's neck. "Of course."

Desmond's hips were bucking into Shaun's hand, as much as he didn't want them to. He felt so conflicted… he _hated _Shaun with every fibre of his being, but there was a welling passion inside him that just didn't seem to quell. "Shaun, fuck, please," Desmond's hand was trembling so hard he dropped the chalk. He leaned back into Shaun's arms, his own calloused hands tracing down the other's arms. "By God…"

Shaun kissed the side of his head, squeezing Desmond's rock-hard cock and stroking it a few times. Desmond's hips quivered, and he let out a strangled groan as he came harder than he ever had before. Even Lucy hadn't consented to give him a handjob. It was absolutely magical… except for the fact that it was Shaun.

"Fucker…" Desmond pulled away as soon as he regained his head, shoving his dick back into his trousers and doing up his belt hastily.

"One more thing," Shaun said passively. Desmond looked at him inquisitively as Shaun held up his hand. Desmond set his jaw angrily, but still he was drawn forward. He took Shaun's wrist and tentatively drew his tongue along the inside of Shaun's index finger.

"Good boy." Shaun smiled, running a long finger over the mark he'd let on Desmond's neck. Desmond, all of his own accord, dropped to his knees. He had been seized by a desire so powerful it threatened to blind him. He worked with numb fingers at the buckle of Shaun's belt, unzipping his trousers and reaching through the slip of his boxer shorts.

Shaun was honestly amazed at just how fast Desmond was on him. In less than five seconds he was on his knees with Shaun's cock in his mouth, sucking like a baby. He wasn't too good – he'd definitely never done it before, that was for sure – but he wasn't bad. Shaun grunted and twisted his fingers in Desmond's short hair as he came, satisfied to hear a choking noise come from Desmond's throat. He drew his hips back, his flaccid member connected to Desmond's red, wet lips by a glistening string of saliva. Desmond swallowed and got to his feet again. Almost languidly Desmond kissed him, still possessed by the same lust that had forced him to his knees, his lips still hot and wet and salty. Shaun wound his arms around Desmond's waist, and felt the other's strong fingers grip the front of his grey pullover.

"You'd better get going, Mr Miles," Shaun told him lowly. "Your time is over."

Desmond's eyes flicked to the clock. Realising the time – how it got to be so late he'd never know – he grabbed his bag and bolted out the door. Shaun smiled to himself, zipping up his trousers and doing up his belt. He shook his head. He knew it would come to a head sooner or later… he knew he wasn't the most cordial person on the planet, but such an attitude sometimes – and very rarely – drew in someone – like Desmond Miles – who mistook passion for hate. Or, perhaps, there was a bit of both. Shaun knew he was a dick, but he couldn't stand idiots.

Desmond sat in his car, fretting. He hastily drove home and was glad that his dad wasn't back from work… or maybe he'd gone out. Desmond didn't care. He crashed into the living room and made a beeline for his room, slamming the door and leaning against the wall, quite out of breath. Holy shit. What had just happened?

He replayed the memories in his head. Right… he was in detention, writing lines like some fucking four-year-old, and then… then… the next thing he knew he'd gotten a hand-job from his history professor and was on his knees with a dick in his mouth.

Just the thought of the afternoon's events made Desmond's cheeks grow warm. He fingered the zipper of his hoodie, drawing it down to let out the heat. His fingers lingered at his belt. He could feel himself growing thinking of what happened, and his hand slipped below his waistline to grasp his cock, willing it not to grow any harder. He could hear Shaun's little laugh in his ear, and he began to slide his fingers around. He bit down on his lips as he began to move fast, his head tilted back to lean against the wall. "Fuck…" He came all over the inside of his jeans, and then promptly went to have a shower.

**Italian:**

_Figlio di puttana = _son of a whore


	5. Chapter 5

**V: EzioAuditore**

Ezio Auditore had been introduced to Leonardo da Vinci when he was in his junior year.

Leonardo was a good friend of his mother's, and he was an amazing artisan and scientist. He taught both, but at a different school to the one Ezio went was positively fascinated by the older man; the one with the blonde hair and blue eyes and the smattering of freckles across his nose. Ezio thought the way Leonardo went about his tasks was interesting and he never got tired of watching. Ezio often drifted to Leonardo's loft in the city to watch him paint or sculpt or craft. He enjoyed his company, and he hoped Leonardo did too. By the way Leonardo smiled kindly at him he guessed he was right.

Ezio was a lazy person by default – even so, he was fit and devastatingly handsome and was never without a girlfriend. Despite the fact that he was an unmistakably languid and carefree person, he would have done anything for Leonardo. Leonardo was surprisingly strong, as Ezio had found out the first day they had met. His mother had commissioned some works from the artist, and Ezio had tagged along to help carry the boxes. Leonardo had picked up a box with one arm that Ezio was almost crushed by.

Leonardo was a very happy-go-lucky kind of person, and Ezio had never heard him say an unkind word or look at someone meanly. He found it pleasantly refreshing, especially since he was always in some sort of sinister situation.

Ezio was forced to change schools at the end of his junior year. He had punched Cesare-fucking-Borgia so hard that he'd knocked him out cold. There had been a massive fistfight prior, drawing the attention of half the school before teachers came along and broke it up.

In a way, Ezio was glad he wasn't at the same school as Cesare anymore. He didn't have to deal with the bastard on a daily basis, at least.

He had been surprised when he had turned up on the first day of his senior year and found that his fine arts teacher was Leonardo da Vinci. Leonardo hadn't seemed surprised to see him, though. In fact, he acted as if he'd rather expected it.

Leonardo was a good teacher, but it made Ezio's blood boil to see the female students flirting with him. Even though the fine arts class was made up of three-quarters of attractive chicks, Leonardo brushed each one of them off patiently and kindly. Ezio had made many a young woman cry in his time by his clumsy rejections, but he had never seen a girl emerge from the art department in tears. Not once.

Ezio had slowly grown used to seeing the blonde-haired artist every day, and he found contentment whenever he looked at him.

Ezio liked art, but he was no good at it. He preferred appraisal to drawing.

"Ezio, _amico mio_," Leonardo motioned for him to stay after class one day. Ezio turned around and gently shouldered through the throng of students heading for the stairs.

"What is it?" he asked, looking down to where Leonardo sat behind his desk. The artist shifted a bit uncomfortably and waited for the last student to leave before speaking.

"We have been friends for a time now, no?" he asked. Ezio nodded hesitantly.

"You know you can tell me anything, Leonardo. What is it that troubles you?"

Leonardo sighed, leaning back in his chair. "I have run out of models, Ezio. The women, the men, everyone. I tire of drawing the same people, and there is a severe shortage of willing models in this city. I need… something to test my boundaries." He looked up with clear blue eyes. "Ezio, would you be so kind as to model for me?"

Ezio was taken by surprise. He hadn't expected such a request, but the thought was appealing indeed. Ezio was tall and muscular, leaner than his cousin Altaïr, with long brown hair and deep brown eyes. He had a magnificent smile, too.

"I suppose so," he replied, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "I don't have anything better to do."

Leonardo clapped his hands together, leaping to his feet. "_Bene!_" he exclaimed excitedly. "_Molto bene! Mille grazie, amico mio!_" He clapped Ezio on the shoulder, his face alight with happiness. Ezio smiled back, unable to keep a straight face.

"_Nessun problemo, signore,_" Ezio assured him. "Tell me when and where and I am yours."

Leonardo grinned. Even though he was the older of the two, he was a little bit shorter than Ezio, but enough to have to look up at him. "Would this afternoon suit you? I would take you, of course, but if you have your own car you can drive, of course –,"

Ezio cut him off with a smile. "Where?"

"My loft."

Ezio squeezed the artist's shoulder. "I will see you there, _signore_."

Ezio drove himself to Leonardo's loft, preferring not to let Altaïr and Desmond catch on to where he was going. He'd never hear the end of it if they did.

He arrived at Leonardo's loft little over fifteen minutes later, hopping out and practically skipping up the steps to the tenth floor. Ezio always preferred to take the stairs, and this time he all but flew up them, his long legs taking them three at a time.

"Leonardo, _salute_!" he called as he opened the door. Leonardo looked up from prepping his canvas and smiled.

"_Ciao, _Ezio," he replied genially. He motioned to a divan in the centre of the room. "Please, take a seat."

Ezio obediently went and sat down.

"_Per favore, _take off your shirt, _amico mio_."

Ezio slipped his shirt over his head and let it fall over the arm of the divan, leaving him marvellously bare-chested. Leonardo seemed marginally surprised by what he saw and paused.

Sooner or later Leonardo began to sketch, talking genially all the time. Ezio replied when he could, but he would have preferred not to talk. Watching the artist's lean, nimble fingers was enough to satisfy him. The sound of Leonardo's voice was enough to make him drift into peacefulness.

He must have dozed off, because he suddenly heard Leonardo calling his name.

"Ah, _dio mio!_" the artist exclaimed. "I thought I had lost you!"

Ezio sat up and stretched. "Ah, _mi dispiace,_" he apologised.

"Ah, _amico mio,_ would you mind maybe standing?" Leonardo asked hesitantly.

"_Certamente_," Ezio smiled, getting to his feet. His trousers hung low about his hips, revealing the trail of brown hair that led to one of his most impressive assets.

"_Bene!_"

Leonardo began to sketch again, and Ezio rolled his neck to stretch it out a bit. After a few more minutes Leonardo paused again.

"Leonardo," Ezio sighed. "It is quite all right."

Leonardo smiled gratefully and approached him, letting the artist inspect him quite closely and occasionally trace a long finger over a muscle or two.

"Exquisite," the artist was muttering. "Such fine physique. I have never seen anybody so sculpted."

His comments made Ezio blush and feel hotter than he should have. He knew Leonardo was different, but he never expected he'd feel _these feelings_ towards him. At that moment Leonardo was bent double, examining Ezio's abdominal muscles. Ezio brought a large, calloused hand up under Leonardo's chin, raising him up straight. Ezio looked down at him with smouldering brown eyes.

"Ezio, _amico_, you are my student –,"

"And your friend, no? Leonardo, I would do anything for you." Ezio bent down slightly to press a kiss against the artist's lips, winding his arms around Leonardo's slightly smaller form. He could tell Leonardo was trying extremely hard not to give in, but his efforts were failing. Ezio could feel it.

Ezio drew back and smiled softly down at the blushing blonde who was trying his hardest to look away.

"_Sì,_ but –," Leonardo was cut off by another kiss, and this time he abandoned all hope of survival and snaked his arms around Ezio's neck. He felt the hard muscles of his student's body press against him, so warm and loving. He melted into the kiss and felt Ezio's hand dip downwards.

"Ezio, _smettila,_" Leonardo groaned, putting his palms against the bare skin of Ezio's chest and pushing. "_Per favore!"_

Ezio ran his nose along Leonardo's jaw, catching his earlobe between his teeth. Leonardo bit his tongue to stifle a moan. "Ezio…"

With a desperate shove, Leonardo stumbled back. His face was as red as anything and he was breathing shallowly. "Ezio, I beg of you, don't. You are my student – I cannot do this. I care for you, of course I do, but this is…_folia_!"

Ezio felt disappointed and embarrassed to have been rejected so openly. He was not accustomed to rejection, and so to be pushed away by someone he loved – by someone he didn't even _know _he loved –,

Ezio slowly approached the red-faced artist, the muscles of his body moving like water under his skin. He reached out with a warm hand and traced a line along Leonardo's jaw.

"_Caro mio_," he said softly. "Nobody will ever know. We will keep it between us, and us only. _Ti amore,_ Leonardo. Please. _Sei tutto per me. Sei il mio universo."_

Leonardo swallowed. "Ezio, I…" his sentence trailed off, his excuse lost as Ezio kissed him for a third time.

"Leave it up to me, _amore_," Ezio promised as he kissed Leonardo's cheek. "I will take care of you."

Leonardo made a small sound in his throat, pressing his open lips to Ezio's in utter defeat. He was met with the student's darting tongue, just as strong and talented as the rest of him. It wasn't long before all inhibitions had deserted him, and he let Ezio tug him to the divan without complaint. He shivered at the names Ezio called him, some loving and others so dirty it made him blush. "_Ti desidero,_ Leonardo," Ezio whispered as he fumbled to get the artist out of those goddamn clothes. He couldn't stop telling Leonardo how much he loved him – the thought of the blonde man writing beneath him and begging him made him harder than any girl had before. Leonardo, he could tell, was trying obscenely hard to control himself, but just as before, his effort was proving futile.

"Ezio," he gasped as Ezio slid a hand up his stomach. Leonardo was lean but thin, with pale skin that was so clear Ezio wanted to do nothing more than mark it. Ezio kissed the artist's neck, drawing his other hand up to slide his fingers over Leonardo's shoulders.

Ezio tenderly lay Leonardo down on the divan, looking at his face lovingly before descending down over him.

An hour or so later, Ezio was reclining on the divan completely naked and very happy. Leonardo had had the sense to pull on some trousers before he began to pace, his face flushed and his hands wringing together in his acute nervousness. Ezio had never had such magnificent sex in his life. The remainders of his orgasm still rang in his ears.

"Leonardo, _caro mio_, it will be all right!" Ezio laughed flippantly. "It will be our little secret." He touched the side of his nose as Leonardo gazed at him incredulously.

"Ezio! Do you not understand? I have – this could get me fired!" Leonardo brought his hands to his hair, grinding his teeth. "You must not tell anybody of this, do you understand?"

Ezio had never seen the artist in such a state. In all honesty he was quite amused.

"You have my word," Ezio replied sincerely. "I shall not fail you."

Leonardo watched him out of clear blue eyes. His gaze was sad but bright, resonating with indecision. "I think you had better go, _amico_," he said eventually, shrugging on his shirt. Ezio stood and began to dress, scarcely managing to hide his smile. He left the loft after pulling Leonardo in for a soft kiss. His afternoon had been made.

**Italian:**

_amicomio_= my friend

_mille grazie_ = a million thanks

_molto bene_ = very good/well

_(va) bene_ = good/well/ok

_nessun problem_ = no problem

_signore_ = sir/mister

_ciao_ = hello/goodbye

_diomio_ = my God

_mi dispiace_ = my apologies/I'm sorry

_certamente_ = certainly

_smettila_ = stop (what you are doing)

_per favore_ = please

_folia_ = madness

_tiamo_ = I love you

_caromio_ = my darling

_Sei tutto per me, seiilmiouniverso_ = you are everything to me; you are my universe

_Ti desidero_ = I want you

_amore (mio)_ = (my) love


	6. Chapter 6

**VI: Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad**

What.

The.

Fuck.

These were the exact words he conveyed to Malik Al-Sayf after his psychology class.

Malik had found it all very annoying.

"I'm the teacher here, Altaïr, in case you have forgotten. You should show a little more respect." Malik had pushed his glasses up into his hair. Altaïr smirked at the man.

"Respect? Wasn't it you who was riding my –," he was cut off as Malik slapped a hand over his mouth.

"I hope you understand that you won't be able to use your little bits of information as blackmail," Malik snarled. "Firstly because you would never want anybody to think you were gay, and secondly because nobody would believe you anyway."

Altaïr knew he was right, but he would never admit it. He checked to see if the room was empty before sliding a hand around Malik's waist and pulling their bodies together. The teacher gave him a warning look. "You shouldn't assume things, _sir_," he said with burning amber eyes. "You'd be surprised."

Malik pushed past him. "High school is a jungle," he said loudly as he picked up his bag and made for the door. "It's like going to a zoo."

Altaïr followed him up the steps with a skipping step. At first he wasn't sure whether to be nervous or happy, and eventually chose the latter.

"Exactly," he told the professor whose face was not unlike a storm cloud. "Just like a jungle; you have to be strong to survive, right?" He slammed a large hand against the door beside Malik's head before he could open it. Malik shot him a blistering glare.

"I don't appreciate your rudeness, Ibn-La'Ahad," he snapped as he pushed Altaïr's hand away and exited out into the corridor milling with students.

"You seemed to like it," Altaïr bent down to breathe in his ear as they walked, their bodies pressed close together by the throng of oblivious scholars. "Having me so deep inside you. I never expected that you'd ride me, though – that was unexpected. Did you like how big I am? I saw it on your face – the way you rolled your hips around, the way you called my name so wanly –,"

Malik almost slapped him. His cheeks had gone red and his eyes had darkened so much they were almost black. As they were spat out into the empty end of the corridor Malik got as far from Altaïr as he could. "You are a little shit," he spat angrily. Altaïr found it amusing – he was just like a cat. "And don't you _dare_ think that you have a hold over me just because…" he grated his teeth together as Altaïr smiled. "And I _never_ called your name."

With that he turned and stalked away, leaving Altaïr inwardly grinning. The young man snorted and flicked up his hood. "Not outwardly."

He strolled to his locker in the now almost-empty corridor, languidly packing his bags. He knew Desmond would be pissed at him for being late; the thought made him laugh.

When he met Desmond outside the school, he knew something was up. Firstly because Ezio was missing, and secondly because Desmond was sweating.

Altaïr paused before getting into the car. Desmond wasn't looking at him. "You all right?"

Desmond nodded, swallowing. "Yeah, fine."

Desmond drove jerkily, his mind wandering all over the place. Eventually Altaïr made him switch sides.

"Something's up with you, Des," Altaïr remarks in a hard voice, his eyes shaded by the lip of his hood.

"Nothing's wrong," Desmond lied in a mumble. Altaïr sniffed the air suspiciously, and began laughing so hard that the car almost swerved into the next lane.

"You smell like sex, Des!" he hooted, banging his hands on the steering wheel. "Who was it, hm? That Lucy chick moved away, so it wasn't her… man, _gawwad!_" he blinked the tears from his eyes. "So? Who was it?"

Desmond shifted uneasily. "Just some chick. I can't remember her name."

Altaïr crowed with laughter. "Hey – where's Ezio?"

Desmond shrugged. "I don't know. He keeps disappearing at the end of the day – I don't know where he keeps going."

Altaïr shrugged. He didn't care where the Italian had gotten to – he had his own problems. He had a plan to sort out.

The next day he had psychology in his second period. Malik ignored him pointedly throughout the whole lesson, snubbing him purposefully. Altaïr had his plan devised. He knew _exactly _what to do.

After he excused himself to go to the bathroom, he roamed the corridors with his hood up and his hands in his pockets. He stopped beside a little red box not too far from the lecture room. He rocked back on his heels, pulling one hand out of his pocket. Decisively, he punched the little box and set of the alarm.

The fire alarm screeched throughout the building as Altaïr strolled back to his classroom, smiling. People were exiting out into the corridors, muttering and whispering and theorising. He pushed through them, going against the current and back towards his classroom.

When he got there half the students had exited, Malik bringing up the rear of the line. There was a certain sharpness to his face, an alertness that Altaïr had seen only once before. He waited just inside the door and grabbed Malik's arm before he could leave, slamming the door after the last student had exited, locking it.

"Altaïr?" he hissed, just audible over the alarm. "What are you doing? This is dangerous –,"

Altaïr grinned and silenced him with his lips. "_Bilhudoo_," he murmured against Malik's lips. "I was the one who set it off."

Malik shoved him away with surprising strength. "You are a complete moron," he exclaimed hotly. Altaïr snatched him up by the lapels of his jacket, pulling their bodies flush against one another. He felt victorious at the small sound Malik made as he did so.

"_Ayrefeek."_

Altaïr gripped Malik's shoulders, forcing the man to his knees. "Isn't that a little harsh, Malik?" he asked mockingly, opening his jeans.

Malik looked up at him out of stormy eyes, his teeth grit so hard that Altaïr was vessel to the fleeting fear that Malik might bite his dick clean off.

Altaïr watched as Malik got to his feet pressing their bodies together and trapping Altaïr's raging erection between them. His hand curled around it, squeezing it tightly and giving it a stroke or two. Malik's nose skimmed over his cheek, his breath warm on Altaïr's face. Altaïr's expression suddenly twisted with pain as Malik delivered a violent twist to his cock.

"Nice try, novice," Malik hissed against Altaïr's cheek. "You'll have to try a lot harder than that."

With that he shouldered past Altaïr, heading out to the assembly point.


End file.
